


Darker Sides than a Mortal

by SherlockChlo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Gay Sex, Greg is a vampire, John is a vampire, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mycroft is a vampire, Sherlock is a vampire, The Fall - Freeform, Vampire Cure, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockChlo/pseuds/SherlockChlo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was born in Georgian Britain, his quest to live up to the standards of Mycroft had begun. He was married of to a Duchess and made to do everything right for the Holmes name. Sherlock didn't even like women. </p><p>When he met a man named Jonathan, who wasn't as human as he showed himself to be, he couldn't resist leaving the bar with him. Sherlock is killed that same night. </p><p>We see John and Sherlock in modern London, battling Moriarty with his 'Final Problem' and a cure for vampires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of it all.

 

Vampires were a tale that the old told the young. The fables of creatures who would burn in the sun. Sherlock had read about them and investigated their powers from books and scriptures that came from the hand of vampires themselves. The time of the Georgian code and posh aristocrats became a time in which the original Sherlock Holmes was born.

 

On 6th January 1750, Sherlock Holmes was born. Seven years after his brother Mycroft was born; seven years that would take its toll on the boy when he began to grow.

 

Being an extremely rich family in the reign of George II, the Holmes boys received the highest education available to them, each using it in different ways. Mycroft, always the 'angel' of the family, used his education to his advantage, manipulating with his intelligence and not letting himself be distracted.

 

Yes, Mycroft Holmes was a chip-off the old block when it came to the Holmes family. None of the men in the family had ever let their education take them over, instead taking the education over instead. They controlled everyone around them, the people unaware to the power that was being held over them completely. In fact, by the time Sherlock was born, Mycroft had manipulated three of the women entrusted to look after the young Holmes, his parents completely unaware themselves.

 

Mycroft was the Holmes' 'Golden Boy', and even Sherlock couldn't change that.

 

In contrast, Sherlock Holmes was a trouble maker. When Mycroft kept his clothes pristine, for his own interest more than other people's, Sherlock would dig up the Mansion's garden in hope, attempting to lay his hands upon worms and any other insects he could find. His extremely expensive clothes being destroyed in the process.

 

In short, his parents were _not_ happy. Sherlock would be caned whenever he ruined his clothes. But, being Sherlock, he didn't listen to the marks on the back of his legs and on his behind, and continued all of his experiments. With every month that Sherlock grew older and continued to fulfil his ambitions, his parents would increase the amount of canings he would get.

 

Sherlock was six years old when the caning had reached thirty strikes every time he did something wrong.

 

He just blocked it out.

 

Retreating to his Mind Library, Sherlock would block the pain out and retreat to Mycroft when it was all over. His brother would scold him but, with special oils given to him by their nanny, sooth the wounds on Sherlock's body. Mycroft _never_ got caned.

 

In the darkness of a winter night, Sherlock ventured out to seek himself somewhere where Mycroft would not outshine him at everything he presented to his parents.

 

“Mother, look at the butterfly I caught and preserved this morning.”

 

“Lovely, William.”

 

Sherlock _hated_ his real name, but his parents continued to call him the name he despised the most.

 

“I proceeded to learn the history of our King today, mother. Would you like me to show you?”

 

“I am too occupied currently, William.”

 

So, until Sherlock had finally understood that his parents didn't love him in any way, he continued to show his mother anything he discovered. Then the destruction of his emotions came and he closed himself off from everyone. He was ten years old.

 

When Sherlock was eighteen, he was sick of _everything_. He was sick of his parents. He was sick of his brother Mycroft and how ' _perfect_ ' he was at everything he did. He was sick of all the women that tried to get into his pants all of the time. He just wasn't into _women_. He was sick of the preparations, that had been going on for months, for his wedding with a Duchess from France. He hadn't even met this _Duchess_.

 

After a year of being married to Anabella, and a baby on the way, Sherlock found himself in Paris on 'business' and in a rather full tavern. When he looked around the room, Sherlock spotted a rather small man sitting at the other end of the bar.

 

They got on well when they spoke, and were both almost opposite in their frame. Sherlock was tall, raven curls framing his face, cheekbones that rose, perhaps too high for any normal person, and eyes that looked like ice on a spike. He was too skinny for a man his age, but he couldn't find the time to care about it.

 

The other man's name was Jonathan. He was rather small in height, with deep sandy hair. Sherlock didn't usually like people, _women_ , with blonde hair, but Jonathan definitely caught his attention. The man's eyes were a deep blue; which reminded Sherlock of the whirlpools that used to form in the lake down by the Holmes Mansion. Turned out that Jonathan was in the army, but currently on leave. But Sherlock knew that Jonathan definitely _wasn't_ French.

 

Jonathan had a rather _large_ story to tell, but no secrets were spilt between the two men.

 

Jonathan was not a mortal, instead he was a creature of the night.

 

Love at first sight was what they called their meeting with each other. So when Jonathan asked Sherlock to return here tomorrow, for they had some 'business' to discuss, Sherlock was more than happy to oblige.

 

The next day both of the men returned. When Jonathan asked Sherlock if he wanted to go home with him tonight, Sherlock practically ran from the tavern and pulled Jonathan along with him. They made it back to John's temporary cottage fully clothed. But, when inside things turned in a very different direction.

 

Their clothes were gone within seconds and before Sherlock came to his senses, he was on his back with his legs pushed up to his chest and Jonathan was kneeling over him. Their kisses were sweet, but filled with a hunger that neither of them registered. Sherlock switched their places, pushing Jonathan onto the bed and continuing as before.

 

Sherlock was slow and reverent. He kissed John all over, tasting every piece of skin and telling Jonathan what he loved about each part of his body. He deduced where each scar came from, their cause and why they were there, recollecting the information out loud to his lover. When Sherlock found his gaze in front of Jonathan's cock, he stopped reluctantly with a wicked grin thrown in Jonathan's direction. The man below him grunted in frustration. Now Sherlock's kisses were hot and eager, his fingers trembling with the desire of finally controlling his own life.

 

After Jonathan was prepared; Sherlock had found some oil on the box next to the bed and managed to get three of his long, bony fingers inside Jonathan, Sherlock moved himself and lined up. Pushing in slowly, both of the men let out a deep groan. After a minute or so, in order for Jonathan to feel comfortable with the new invasion, Sherlock was fully seated inside the smaller man.

 

Jonathan was rutting slightly against the hips pushed against his own. “P-please.” Jonathan pleaded helplessly on the bed and moved slightly, encouraging Sherlock to start moving. Sherlock did as he asked and started to move his hips out slowly, making sure that he caused Jonathan no pain whatsoever. They didn't take long to find a rhythm that suited them both. Sherlock would go deep and rather fast, attempting to hit Jonathan's prostate.

 

He hadn't succeeded until, “Argh...” Jonathan continued to breathe in and out and lifted his hips. _Now_ Sherlock hit his prostate every other thrust. Sherlock was enjoying himself way too much, but that was something that he loved about liking men, before he looked down, expecting to find Jonathan in total bliss.

 

However, the man beneath him was no longer a man. Jonathan's eyes were open, looking with a truly _hungry_ expression at Sherlock. The entire eye was a hollow black colour, resembling empty chasms that dropped for eternity into Jonathan's skull. When the blonde's mouth dropped open, pristine white fangs were revealed, replacing the space where his canines should have been.

 

Sherlock looked down and immediately knew something was going to happen. Something to _him_. He felt a strong hand pulling his head down towards Jonathan, but he didn't resist. When Jonathan sniffed and licked a stripe up Sherlock's neck, Sherlock only thrust faster.

 

Then came the bite to the neck. Sherlock shouted and came inside Jonathan, allowing himself into the pleasure of the after-glow, and that of the pain searing from his neck. Jonathan was most likely going to kill him, but Sherlock didn't even care. As Sherlock's vision whitened even more than during his climax, he felt a wrist press to his mouth. He sucked happily.

 

~*~*~*~

 

When he awoke from slumber, he found himself dressed in a suit and in a _very_ small space. He was so confined, that he couldn't feel any part of his body. Sherlock knew immediately where he was. Posh suit. Confined space...

 

_Coffin_ .

 

Sherlock was being buried at his own funeral, no way of escaping and completely unaware of what was actually happening to him. The last thing that he remembered was...  _The bite._

 

' _Where_ was Jonathan? I doubt they would have allowed him to my funeral...  _Why_ am I in a  _coffin_ ? Oh God...  _Jonathan_ .'

 

Sherlock felt the coffin being lifted and started to shout; nobody heard him. They placed him in the ground and left him there to die. He was being buried  _alive_ . Sherlock had screamed and screamed with all of the air he believed to be in his lungs, but nobody heard him. Then, a baby started to cry and wail... Oh God. The screams increased in volume, but when the patter of dirt started to run through the coffin, Sherlock gave up his pleas. 

 

Falling into unconsciousness, Sherlock realised something completely bizarre, and came to the conclusion that it couldn't have been anything else.

 

Jonathan was a vampire; he'd used the bite to turn him. Sherlock wouldn't die in here. He would have to remain in this coffin,  _forever_ . 

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” The smooth voice of a previous man broke Sherlock from his slumber. There was the banging of a crowbar hitting wood and then the lid to the coffin was opening. Sherlock's eyes didn't open immediately, his mind tricking him into believing he was dreaming of the voice.

 

Then, two blue eyes opened to stare at the 'dead body' below him, Sherlock recognised them at once. “Jonathan?”

 

“Hello, my little one. Ready to travel the World with me?” Jonathan held out his hand and helped Sherlock out of the coffin and onto the wet ground. It had been raining then, how _typical_! “Come here.” The solider shouted and a small girl in a deep blue dress walked from behind a tree. She couldn't have been more than ten years old. “If you want to survive, Sherlock, you're going to want to drink. My blood won't do it for you any more.” The girl stood facing Sherlock, the terror in her eyes giving away that her body was wrong.

 

“What. Did. You _Do_. To me?” Sherlock almost shouted, clutching his head and feeling the need to drink and feed until his life ended. Jonathan smiled at the new vampire crawling around on the floor.

 

“You are turning into a vampire, Little One. Now _drink_ , or you _will_ die.” Jonathan tilted the girl's head, in order to expose her neck to Sherlock. The pulse point throbbing wildly and too visibly for Sherlock's liking. “Come _on_ , you know you want to.” Now Jonathan smirked.

 

“I-I cannot.”

 

“You drank my blood on your own free will, Sherlock. You wanted this. You knew what I was, and yet you still let me bite you. _You_ drank _my_ blood.” Jonathan continued to spur Sherlock on, watching as the New Born's eyes grew darker and more thirsty with every passing second. “Come on, we haven't got all night.” Jonathan smirked once more, “You will dehydrate before then.”

 

That's when Sherlock snapped. He flew forwards, grabbing the girl around the neck and sniffing lightly at her pulse point. He could smell the blood and it beckoned him. He wanted it. His fangs were in the neck and the girl was screaming, his hand finding its way to her mouth to stop the screams. Then he heard Jonathan's voice behind him.

 

“Sherlock, we need to go now.” Then there was a gunshot. “Sh'lock.” Jonathan fell to the floor and looked up at the vampire.

 

“Jonathan? No, you... No. You cannot just leave me here to do this on my own.”

 

“Run...” Jonathan stopped moving completely, his eyes going cold, and his skin turning grey. Or so Sherlock thought.

 

Sherlock ran, and he didn't look back. His speed gave him an advantage, but his death suit didn't. He tripped over several times before making it to his home... His _old_ home. It was raining again now, making Sherlock's curls fall over his face and into his eyes. He didn't care.

 

Inside the room, through a window Sherlock decided to look through, he spotted a brown haired woman, dressed completely in red, holding a small bundle in her arms and crying softly to herself. Sherlock could hear every word she was saying, now that he had turned, so it wasn't hard to understand her side of the loss.

 

“It is going to be fine, Louis. We do not need your father; his brother was kind enough to let us stay with him after all. Maybe Mycroft will be better. I will still love your father, though he could never love me back, and I am sure he would be proud of you, every day of your life.” Anabella kissed their son's head and put him down in a cot, collapsing on the floor afterwards. She was right, Sherlock had _never_ loved her like she had loved him. In fact, Sherlock had loved her like a sister, one that he was forced to continue the line on with.

 

“I am sorry, Anabella.” Sherlock whispered into the night, fleeing before Anabella could see him still alive.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The next thing that Sherlock was able to register was the burn of chains rubbing constantly against his wrists and the gag that stopped him from speaking. His sight was foggy and didn't adjust to the lack of light easily, considering he'd been out for about twenty-four hours. He groaned in pain and lifted his head slightly, only to find his brother sitting, cross legged, opposite him.

 

“Ah, you are finally awake, brother.” Mycroft smirked and rose from the chair and pet his brother on the head. “ _You_ are supposed to be dead.” He removed the gag and allowed Sherlock to speak.

 

“How did I leave?” Sherlock mumbled to himself mostly, but glaring at the floor as Mycroft sighed in reply.

 

“We found you with your neck broken outside a tavern. As I recall, you were accounted for in Paris the day before. So, how you managed to accomplish arriving back, in a mere three hours, to London, I do not know.” Mycroft's eyebrows raised at his brother in question.

 

“So I was murdered. How fascinating.” Sherlock started to laugh and shake his head. “Do you know what I am now, Mycroft? I am the devil's work and his child.”

 

“True.”

 

“What do you want, Mycroft? You always have been too menacing in my affairs.”

 

“I wish to be like you.”

 

“What?”

 

“What does the name 'Jonathan Watson' mean to you?”

 

Sherlock looked up and raised his eyebrows at his brother, “Do not dawdle, brother, you wish to be like me? A vampire, you mean?” Mycroft nodded and smirked even more, looking more and more like the Cheshire cat with every passing moment. “Well, you will need to let me out from these chains before I can do such thing.” Sherlock tilted his head towards the bindings and smiled slightly.

 

“If you wish.” Mycroft moved closer and removed the bonds from Sherlock's body. The younger brother dropped to his knees and rubbed his wrist. Craning his neck, in order to stretch it, he looked up at Mycroft and smiled, showing his fangs to the older brother.

 

“Jonathan and I were involved in sexual intercourse when he changed me. We shall pass upon that step for we should be sent to the devil faster than we will be now.” Mycroft started to undo his tie and shirt, revealing his neck to his brother. “I shall do this on one condition, brother. You will leave me be if I turn you, and you will not meddle in my business for it is _mine_ , do you understand?”

 

Mycroft thought for a few moments and then knelt before Sherlock, “I agree to your terms, brother.” Then Sherlock pounced, his fangs digging deeply into Mycroft's neck. His brother didn't move, except for the opening of his mouth and the closing of his eyes. When Mycroft was almost empty, Sherlock put him down slowly to the floor and copied what, or so he presumed, Jonathan had done for him previously.

 

Sherlock bit harshly into his wrist and held it to Mycroft's mouth; it was obvious to Sherlock that his brother had been reading through Sherlock's noted from when he was alive, as he drank happily and greedily from Sherlock's wrist. When the vampire was sure that his brother had enough of his blood in his system, he placed his brother's head in his hands and snapped them quickly. Mycroft's body was dropped to the floor in a muddle.

 

Then, Sherlock fled.

 


	2. Their 'First' Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a man named Sherlock Holmes. He seems strangely familiar.

Sherlock twirled the ring around his finger; it had been for the past two hundred and forty four years. It had protected him from the sun for nearly two and a half decades, but now Sherlock wanted to take it off and throw himself into the sun. Jonathan on his mind with every twist of the ring. He'd gotten the ring from a fellow vampire when he'd first been changed, but that was a story for a different day.

 

He was sat in a chair, of an unfamiliar living room, and was staring directly forward at a different chair. One that probably wouldn't be occupied, considering his reputation in this day and age. No, Sherlock Holmes would stay alone for the rest of his existence, out living all those around him, and pissing them off in the process.

 

While Lestrade was delivering a very _wrong_ report to reporters about the three _murders_ recently, so Sherlock decided to text him throughout. His last text saying, ' _You know where to find me. -SH_ '

 

When Sherlock's phone starting to ring, his still cold eyes opening sharply, a sigh echoed through the room as Sherlock physically attacked his phone.

 

“Mike?”

 

“ _Hey there, Sherlock. I-_ ”

 

“Get on with it, Mike.” Sherlock snapped into the phone.

 

“ _Right. I have the lab to myself today, and I was wondering whether you would like to use them for one of your_ experiments. _Are you sure you don't want to find a flatmate._ ”

 

“I'll be there. I must be a very difficult man to find a flatmate for, Mike, you know what people think of me.” Sherlock hung up and, within a few seconds, had stepped out of the door of 221B and into the street, his great coat and scarf the colour of the night wrapped around his neck.

 

When he arrived, however, Mike was nowhere to be seen. _Must have gone out for lunch_ Sherlock thought to himself, practically ripping the coat and scarf from his body to perch on a stool. Sherlock was not one for picking up after himself, even if he was two hundred and sixty four. If he was honest to himself, the past two centuries that he'd been vampire he'd gotten even worse than he was before.

 

In fact, two and a half centuries hadn't done much on him. He still looked like the twenty-year-old that was changed by a lover, he _never_ got to see again. His hair, with all of the modern products Sherlock could get his hands on, was even darker than it was during his life, and the curls more defined. They didn't even need mousse or gel any more to keep them in shape. Sherlock's body was still as skinny as ever, although that was now a choice made by the vampire. He didn't need to eat human food, nor the blood of a human, or animal in Sherlock's case, that often because he'd trained his body.

 

His style had changed over the years, ranging from the suits of the Victorian Era, to those of the WWI trenches. Now he chose to wear a plain button up, different colours of course, with a simple suit. It made him look dashing, and that was just _his_ opinion.

 

Now was the time to go and use his nohow on a body. With a riding crop specifically. He flung his coat back on and sped to the Autopsy room. Molly was there, _fantastic_ , and led him to a body bag. Sherlock unzipped it with a sniff, “How fresh?”

 

“ Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice.”

 

Sherlock turned back to Molly, after he zipped the body bag back up, and smiled falsely at her, “We'll start with the riding crop.”

 

When Sherlock had produced his riding crop, shedding his outside cloths in the process, he started to beat the body He knew Molly was watching from outside, and he knew that she was loving it. He didn't like her in that way. When he finished, she was standing in the room.

 

“So, bad day, was it?” Sherlock just ignored her and started to write in his notebook.

 

“I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me.”

 

“Listen, I was wondering: maybe, when you're finished-”

 

Sherlock looked up at her, double taking in the process, and asked, “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before.”

 

“I, er, I refreshed it a bit.” _Right_. Sherlock gave Molly a long ' _oblivious_ ' look, of course he knew what she was trying to do, before turning back to his notebook. 

 

“So, you were saying?”

 

“I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee.”

 

Sherlock looked at her for a moment before, “Black. Two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs.” leaving Molly to say a simple 'okay' to the room.

 

When he had returned to the microscope upstairs, Sherlock was broken from his thoughts, by _two_ sets of footsteps. _Mike must be back from lunch, with a friend?_ He continued his work, only looking up when Mike came through the lab door, before quickly ducking his head back down again. Let the plan begin.

 

“Bit different from my day.” That voice sounded so _familiar_ to Sherlock, but right now, he could care less.

 

“You've no idea.” Mike chuckled, watching as this new man looked around the room in wonder.

 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone, there's no signal on mine.” Sherlock asked, sitting down on a stool, but not looking at the pair.

 

“And what's wrong with the landline?”

 

“I prefer to text.” A shrug.

 

“Sorry. It's in my coat.”

 

“Er here, use mine.” The new voice said, reaching into his pocket to fish out his phone for Sherlock. That was _very_ strange.

 

“Oh. Thank you.” Sherlock said honestly, walking towards the man and looking at him for the first time. He was surprised that this man would just lend his phone out to some random person, but then again, from what Sherlock could see on the man, he _was_ that sort of person.

 

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike introduced the man... _Watson?_

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, turning away from him slightly, typing into the phone rather viscously.

 

“ _Sorry_?” John replied looking rather confused. Sherlock _loved_ it when he got that response.

 

“Which was it- Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked once more. He knew which one it was, but enjoyed seeing people physically squirm when they had to answer. In fact, it was one of his favourite parts of his day.

 

“Afghanistan.” John looked over to Mike, who was wearing a rather smug smirk on his lips, and then turned back to Sherlock. “Sorry, how did you know...?”

 

Just then, Molly returned with Sherlock's coffee, distracting Sherlock, thankfully, from the question John had just asked. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” When Sherlock's eyes narrow, John looks at him strangely. “What happened to the lipstick?” Molly's lips were paler again.

 

“It wasn't working for me.”

 

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now.” Sherlock grimaced as he took a sip of the coffee in hand, he didn't let anyone see his face though when he did so.

 

“...Okay.” And with that, Molly left the room once again. She really did try too hard to impress Sherlock, thinking he was clueless in the idea of relationships and sex. Oh, how everyone, exactly like Molly thought, was wrong about him. If only they knew.

 

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked John, trying to figure out who this man was. He knew him from somewhere, but where he just couldn't place.

 

When John looks at Mike, who still has a smug look on his face, John realises that the man was talking to him, “I'm sorry, what?”

 

Sherlock was typing on a laptop by now, “I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for _days_ on end.” Sherlock turned to John now and smiled slightly at him, not knowing himself whether it was false or not, “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Now Sherlock turned back to the laptop and resumed typing.

 

John turned to Mike, “Oh, you... You told him about me?”

 

Mike shook his head, “Not a word.”

 

“Then who said anything about flatmates?”

 

“ _I_ did. I told Mike only this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch time with an old friend, clearly just back from military service. Wasn't a difficult leap.”

 

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?” John asked the man, still completely clueless as to who he was or what he wanted from him.

 

Sherlock ignored him, _surprise_ , and wrapped his scarf around his neck. When he checked his phone he added, “Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” Then he walked towards John and smiled once more, “We'll meet there tomorrow; seven o'clock. Sorry- gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

 

When the man started to walk towards the door, John stopped him by saying, “Is that it?”

 

“Is that what?” Sherlock wasn't surprised that this John wanted to find out who he was. It was all part of his plan, after all. So, he turned back towards the blonde man again.

 

“We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat?”

 

“Problem?” Sherlock asked quizzically. He smirked slightly as John looked at Mike for help in the situation. Sherlock knew that Mike wouldn't help though, he was too knowledgeable for that. So, he left John to save himself.

 

“We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name.” John said, still leaning on his cane. _Cane? Where have I seen that before?_

 

“ I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” When Sherlock was sure that John was completely gob smacked, he smiled and finished with, “That's enough to be going on, don't you think.” 

 

Sherlock left the door for a moment, before deciding against it and saying, “The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winked at the man and left with, “Afternoon.” That would certainly draw this John to him in the near future.

 

John looked at Mike, but not in the way Mike was thinking. “Yeah, he's always like that.” Mike smiled smugly at John and stood up once more.

 

“Sherlock Holmes?” John whispered, so it _was_ him. 

 

~*~*~*~

“Mycroft, I think I've found him.”

 

“ _Whatever do you mean, Sherlock? You don't like it when_ I _speak in riddles_.” 

 

“Back when I turned you, you asked me what the name 'Jonathan Watson' meant to me, do you remember?”

 

“ _Oh, yes._ That _night. How could I forget that. You took my life that night, what a mistake that was_.”

 

“You asked me to do it, brother, so don't change the subject. Well, I think I have found him.”

 

“ _You've found him? After two and a half centuries of pining after him, you've finally found the vampire who was supposedly dead?_ ” 

 

“Yes.” Sherlock sighed into the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. “By this man, I mean John Watson. The man I've been living with for the past thirteen months.”

 

Mycroft laughed into the phone, clearly amused by Sherlock's emotions, “ _ I did suspect something to be wrong about him. Do you see why I read into his past now? _ ”

 

“No. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock hung up the phone and threw it on the sofa. He was going to reveal himself to 'John' and see which way he reacted. He could easily mind wipe him if he wasn't Jonathan...

 

“JOHN!!”

 

“God, Sherlock! There is no need to shout at me when, I'm in the kitchen. What do you want?” John looked at Sherlock's hand as Sherlock took his ring off and put it back on again in quick succession. “What's that?”

 

“Strange things, these rings. When we get them we have the choice of whether mortals are able to see them or not. I chose not to have anyone see it, otherwise my secret could be given away before the game has even begun. I don't particularly want hunters coming after me.”

 

“What are you talking about, Sherlock? There's a ring right there. If I'm mortal, how comes I can see it if we're not allowed?” John was very confident, Sherlock had to give him that. “What?” John asked when he realised that Sherlock was staring straight at him, _very hungrily_. “Sherlock?” 

 

“John, get up and stand next to the door. Do it quickly or I will be forced to shove you there myself, and believe me... It. _Will_. Hurt.” Sherlock growled, standing up himself and standing next to the window. “Hurry up.” 

 

When John was at the door, he turned around to find that Sherlock was smiling, something clearly different about his appearance. The fangs that were peaking out of his mouth. And the veins that had appeared underneath Sherlock's eyes, and the fact that Sherlock's eyes were now black.

 

“Ah. So it _is_ you. I've been wondering ever since we met if it was truly you. Apparently so. I was hoping you would reveal yourself soon.” John said as though it were nothing. 

 

Sherlock stared at the man for a moment, completely lost in the words he'd just uttered. Wait? Is this... “Jonathan?”

 

“Hello, Sherlock. Long time no see.”

 

“I thought you were _dead_.”

 

“And I you.” John retorted before walking towards the younger vampire. “It's been two and a half centuries since we last saw each other. Where did _you_ vanish off to?” 

 

“ _You_ told _me_ to run, Jonathan, it's not my fault you couldn't find me. I thought that _you_ were dead. You certainly looked that way! I was arrested for trying to help my wife, who didn't even know I was alive, escape from being hanged. She was sleeping with another woman... We were sent to Australia. My wife died there. I don't know where my son went, Mycroft couldn't look after him. I don't really want to find out.”

 

“Oh, so Mycroft _is_ your real brother. I thought he might be a fake one.” 

 

“No. _Unfortunately_ Mycroft happens to be my real brother. I changed him the day after you dug me out from my grave. He practically begged me.”

 

“That doesn't sound _anything_ like Mycroft.” John laughed, and soon enough, Sherlock joined in too. The two vampires laughed until their sides were sore. Then came the stare that lasted for a few moments too long, bringing both of them back to themselves with a cough. 

 

“What happened to you? I'm guessing that you're at least three centuries older than me, so. What does a six hundred year old do with their time?” John thought that Sherlock was joking, until he looked at Sherlock's face and saw the most serious look he'd ever received.

 

“Well, you'd be about right. I was born in 1499, although I'm closer to five centuries than six, Sherlock.” John chuckled when Sherlock scowled at himself, obviously annoyed that he'd gotten it wrong. “I lived for thirty years before I met this beautiful woman, who went by the name of Rachel, no idea if that was actually her real name or not considering I change mine all the time, and she changed me. I was thirty three by then. We got married.”

 

“What happened to her which made you change me?”

 

“She was staked, by one of the hunters in our village. I had been a vampire for thirty two years when she was staked, and it broke my un-beating heart. I went into mourning for a hundred years, as I remember. I wasted all that time and then one night I met a man called Michael. He was the first man that I had sex with, and it was, against my better judgement, _very_ good. I enjoyed it very much in fact. I never changed him, I didn't have the chance. Homosexuality wasn't exactly frond upon in those times, so he was burnt at the stake. I was made to watch, well...”

 

“You chose to watch because you were not caught. He would not reveal your name when you fled.”

 

John nodded and carried on his past, “He was murdered on January 6 th 1669\. Your birthday, just a century before. That's not why I chose to change you so early though. In fact, I didn't know anything about you, except your name. And even then, I didn't know whether Sherlock Holmes was a real name or not. When I met you, I was a very good friend of George II and was sent to war in Paris by him... Great friend he turned out to be, eh?” 

 

“That's where we met? In Paris. I did think that I was there, but Mycroft said that they found my body somewhere in England. What happened?”

 

“Well, we slept together and in that moment of climax I decided I wanted to be with you. I knew that you liked me, so it wouldn't take long to gain your trust. So, I bit you and gave you my blood. A human has to die with your blood in their system to come back as a vampire, so I broke your neck. I took you back to England, with great difficulty I must say, but it didn't take long. I went to your funeral, claiming I was a friend. Your wife was _extremely_ pretty, Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, she was. But it just wasn't what I'm into. It would have never worked in this day and age, so why should it have back then?”

 

“Okay, okay. Then, I went back at night to dig you up, bringing a homeless girl from the street along with me, you would have died if you hadn't drunk from her. I'm surprised you hadn't died already. I heard you shouting in your coffin by the way, nice try.” John smirked at this and looked up at the taller man. “Then I got shot, by your brother no less. He kept me a while and told me to change him. I said no every time. I only changed those that mean something to me. Then, he asked me why I'd changed you. Surely, you can't of meant anything to me.” John rolled his eyes and stood up from the chair. 

 

“Yes, my brother always has been very manipulative. What offer did he give you?”

 

“He said that if I didn't change him then he'd get you to turn him. I told him that it was generally more dangerous because New Borns are less likely to return and free you from your coffin. Again he asked me to change him and my answer stood. When he got hold of you, his men let me go, throwing me into the sun without my ring on. I believe Mycroft still wears it till this day, am I correct?” Sherlock nodded and laughed slightly. “Yeah, your brother was a dick. I barely made it. A woman going by the name of Gwen saved my life, I think she made you your ring, did she not?”

 

Sherlock held his hand up in front of his face, studying his ring carefully, “Guinevere asked me whether I had a sweetheart that I'd left behind. When I said that I had a wife, but wasn't exactly into that sort of thing, she asked me who I'd lost recently. I suppose she could see it on my face. I'd lost you and that broke my heart.” Sherlock looked down at his folding hands in embarrassment. “It was obvious that she knew that I'd only just been turned, so she made me a ring for free. Believe me, I did  _ try  _ to pay her for her services. Guinevere just wouldn't take ' _ no, I want to pay you _ ' for an answer.” Sherlock chuckled to himself slightly.

 

“Gwen always was stubborn; still is. In fact, I need to visit her soon. I haven't seen her in _fifty_ years.” 

 

“I hadn't seen you until that day we first met. Well, actually-”

 

“They told me that you were dead. Killed in action; the Trenches. I wondered if it was true or not, considering you were a vampire at this point. I also wondered if they knew you were a vampire. Have any lovers that you _accidentally_ showed your true self to?” John hummed, looking straight into Sherlock's eyes. 

 

“One. I was horny and looking for a quick fuck; he wanted to know whether he was gay or not. I helped him out. I might have forgotten it wasn't you in the process and actually sunk my fangs deep into his neck. He tasted good, or so I remember.” Sherlock's fangs were out now, his tongue licking around them in a predatory action; he was remembering the moment he tasted the fire in his mouth. It had taken him over completely. He'd _loved_ every second of it. 

 

“Sherlock?” John practically hissed at him when Sherlock hummed in reply, “I'm sorry to distract you from your memories of this man, but we are here in the now and I would much rather you be here with me now, than shagging _some guy_ back in your day.” The frown on John's face made Sherlock laugh genuinely; it was something that he'd store away in his John floor of his Mind Palace... _Forever_. Literally. 

 

“Oh, I wasn't picturing my shag with _him_. Oh no. I was remembering _our_ shag.” The wicked smirk on Sherlock's lips told John everything... He still wanted him. “Wasn't I the one to keep control. You were just _begging_ for me, weren't you? Tell me, _Jonathan_ , would I still be the one who had control, or, in your old age,” John scowled at this, “would _you_ have control over me. I've only had vampire-on-vampire sex once in my ' _life_ ', and it wasn't in the slightest bit interesting. Would you make it interesting, John?”

 

John shuddered at the last question, his non-existent pulse coming back to life.

 

“My, my, Doctor Watson. It seems that you are _aroused_.” Sherlock almost chuckled, breaking down his current act and revealing to John the man he knew from before. Sure enough, John looked down and there was a new lease of life that he hadn't experienced in a while. “Ah, you've noticed it too.” The man smirked and looked down to the bulge that had formed in John's trousers. When John looked too, Sherlock stated firmly, “Eyes front, soldier.” John's eyes shot up to look into Sherlock's. 

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“No. We can't do this now, Doctor, as we have a most pressing case to attend to. It's at least an eight and _far_ more important than _that_.” Sherlock said nodding to the bulge in John's trousers once more. 

 

John whined in rejection and willed his erection to go down... It wouldn't.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Lestrade, I hope that this case is better than the last one. I simply can't stand boring cases.” Sherlock had started moaning as soon as he'd stepped onto the crime scene. They'd only been there five minutes and Sherlock had already revealed to the Yarders that Lestrade had been sleeping with Mycroft for the past year, and that Anderson had no underwear on as he was planning to shag Sally in a secret area later on in the day.

 

John, surprisingly, was the only one on the scene embarrassed by Sherlock's deductions.

 

“If you're not careful, this crime scene could be the start of your end. For the both of you.” Lestrade practically hissed at Sherlock, and John even though he'd simply been studying the corpse from afar, before skulking away and standing next to the body.

 

“What do you mean by that?” John decided to ask-Sherlock had probably worked it out already, but John wasn't like him, so he needed to ask. “'The start of your end'. Very poetic.”

 

“Well, it could mean the beginning of the end for Mycroft and I, also. He turned me, if you hadn't already guessed.” John nodded, but his eyebrows were furrowed. “I knew this guy, I don't remember how or where I'd met him before, but I knew him. He was a vampire, just like you and I. But now, he had human blood running through his veins. He was killed as a mortal; we have no idea how-”

 

“You're quite correct for once, Lestrade.” A new baritone voice quipped into the conversation. “I knew this man too. He sold me drugs once- An annoying fellow.”

 

“Just like you then.” John received a glare.

 

“The murder weapon was left at the scene- A knife that has human blood on it. Human blood is much thinner than that of a vampires, so it's very easy to tell. Believe me, I've run a lot of tests over the years. This man was, somehow, turned back to a mortal so that someone could kill him. I have some theories about how he was made mortal, although there is something more important that I have discovered. The knife.”

 

“What about the knife?” Lestrade asked, completely transfixed upon Sherlock's deductions.

 

“There was a seal on the handle. The seal of the family of Moriarty. After our encounter with Moriarty at the pool I read up on his family. Apparently my family had feuds with his family throughout my time as a vampire. I was not there, of course, so I didn't keep track of everything. Moriarty was the one to slit this man's throat. I've just looked at his arms, as I know that Lestrade here sent him to rehab where he successfully conquered his drug addiction, so he hasn't been using for years now, and there were faded track marks... With the exception of one, the one that injected some sort of cure for vampirity into his system. Moriarty must have that cure-”

 

“So you're a vampire then, Freak?” Sally Donovan's interrupted the men from their discussion. “Who would have thought that 'The Reichenbach Hero' would be a vampire, of all things, as well as a Freak.”

 

“ _Donovan_!” Lestrade shouted. “If Sherlock is a freak because he is one of the un-dead, then what does that make John and I?” Both men bared their fangs at the Sergeant, sniggering when she stepped back slightly in fear. “What's the problem, Donovan? Can't stand vampires, is that it? Everyone knows that they exist. Does that make us freaks?”

 

“No, sir.”

  
“ _Good_. Now bugger off before I let Sherlock experiment on you.” Sherlock's eyes twinkled at the mention of experimenting on Sally. But a frown, including a slight pout, spread its way onto his features when Sally practically ran away. “You were saying, Sherlock.”

 

“Moriarty must have created a cure for vampires to make them mortal again. I don't know how long the affect would continue to work for, but it would be hours at the least. A chance to breathe again, to feel a pulse running through your body. Even I would take a cure like that- even if for a day. It would be extremely interesting as an experiment. I could see how everything feels after two centuries of being dead.”

 

“You're forgetting one thing though, Sherlock. Moriarty obviously uses it for other reasons. To kill vampires that take the cure. They were practically dead when they took that ' _cure_ '.”

 

“Exactly. I need to go and see my brother; explain the situation. He could get people onto it.”

 

“I could easily do that, Sherlock, considering your brother and I are ' _shagging disgustingly_ '.” Lestrade pointed out to the other man.

 

“It's fine, Graham. I have no need of your services.” Sherlock snarled, leaving the crime scene and climbing into a taxi.

 

“Sorry about that, Greg. Sherlock has been very on edge since Baskerville. He told me that he saw Moriarty behind the gas mask when we were in the fog. If I'm honest, I think he's preparing for the worst with this whole game they've got going on. Who knows when he'll strike next.”

 

“I'll just send a text to Myc letting him know that his aggravated brother is about to trespass.” And Lestrade did just that.

 

In another part of London, Mycroft had just received the text before his ' _aggravated brother_ ' entered his office. “Ah, I was wondering how long it would take you to get here, brother dear.”

 

“Enough of that, Mycroft.” Sherlock sighed and looked his brother directly in the eye. “It's started.” Mycroft's back straightened. “It is time for our side to begin, don't you think?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again. I'm sorry but the next chapter is literally just the words to The Reichenbach Fall with some of my own lines added in here and there... It's going to take a while. I've only just written Moriarty being found Not Guilty... Yeah...


	3. Moriarty Plays His First Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fall begins, and we see John and Sherlock trying to get their claws into Moriarty...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry that this hasn't been updated in a while. I've just finished my 14th GCSE exam, so I'm a bit tired. I've been busy. 
> 
> Any way, I hope you like this chapter. I must warn you, most of it is literally what we see in TRF. Yeah, enjoy! :)

A few days later, and John had been sitting on the sofa and reading the papers, a glass of blood in his hand. Both of the vampires had managed to convince Molly to let them have monthly supplies of blood from the morgue. Sherlock, clad in his blue dressing gown and his shirt and trousers, had stormed into the room and threw down the 'Daily Star' onto the table in front of John. “Boffin. 'Boffin Sherlock Holmes.”

“Everybody gets one.”

“One what?”

“Tabloid nickname: 'SuBo'; 'Nasty Nick'. Shouldn't worry- I'll probably get one soon.” John took a sip of the blood and licked his lips clean, his eyes closing in bliss for a few moments.

“Page five, column sic, first sentence.” Sherlock rambled to John, so John had turned to that page and had begun to read it. Sherlock picked up the deerstalker on the fireplace and punched it angrily, “Why is it always the hat photograph?”

Looking at the newspaper still, John read aloud, “'Bachelor John Watson'?” 

“What sort of hat is is, anyway?”

“'Bachelor'? What the hell are they implying?” John said once more, looking up at his flat mate briefly, before going back to the newspaper on the table in front of him. 

Sherlock was busy twisting the hat in front of himself, still muttering about it to the room, “Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?”

John looked up briefly and replied, “It's a deerstalker...” before returning his attention to the newspaper and reading more of the article out to Sherlock, “'Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson...”

“You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do- throw it?” 

“'... confirmed bachelor John Watson'!” 

Sherlock imitated a frisbee throw, “Some sort of death frisbee?” 

“Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful.” 

Sherlock undid the hat, “It's got flaps... Ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John.” Throwing the hat in John's direction, Sherlock started to ace around the living room. John did not manage to catch the hat before it hit him. “What do you mean, 'more careful'?” 

“I mean, this isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you're not exactly a private detective any more.” John held his thumb and forefinger together, almost angrily, “You're this far from famous.”

“Oh, it'll pass.” Sherlock threw himself down in his chair and placed his hands in front of his face, in his oh-so-famous prayer position. 

“It'd better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you.” John was looking at Sherlock very angrily now-More at the press than at his friend. 

“It really bothers you.”

“What?”

“What people say.”

“Yes.”

“About me? I don't understand- why would it upset you?” 

John held the Detective's gaze for a few moments before he looked away and mumbled, “Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.” Sherlock and John had solved lots of cases over the past few weeks, Sherlock being commended at each of them. John was not getting bored of the attention, but Sherlock never had liked it. His new name, after he solved the 'Falls of the Reichenbach', was 'The Reichenbach Hero', and Sherlock hated it!

The Detective chugged down the rest of his own glass and got up from his chair.

~*~*~*~

A couple of hours later and Sherlock was sitting at his microscope. John, wearing a bathrobe and towelling the back of his neck dry, looked at Sherlock's phone as it made a noise. 

“It's your phone.” He commented, but Sherlock didn't even turn around to look at him. 

“Mm. Keeps doing that.” Sherlock replied, clearly not interested in what John had to say. Since the 'cure' incident, Sherlock had been spending a lot of his time awake discussing things with Mycroft. There were things that needed to be sorted. But now he had an opportunity to spend time on his experiments. 

John walked past the dummy and sat down in his chair, “So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?”

“Oh. Henry Fishgard never committed suicide.” Sherlock slammed a hardback book shut and puts it on the kitchen table beside him, before swiftly going back to his microscope. “Bow Steet Runners: Missed everything.”

“Pressing case, is it?” John asked, clearly amused by what Sherlock had gone through to prove that this man was murdered. The dummy had looked real until John studied it carefully. John had acquired another glass of blood. In fact, he'd been drinking more recently because he knew that Moriarty could be watching and wanting to strike at any moment. 

“They're all pressing 'til they're solved.” Sherlock said simply giving a slight sigh. 

~*~*~*~

Jim Moriarty. Or he was, but not right now. No, now Jim had blended into the crowds at the Tower of London. Nobody had even given him a second glance as he snapped pictures of the security around the courtyard. 

When walking through the metal detector, Jim made the machine buzz loudly. “Excuse me, sir.” The man on the other end of the machine said to him. “Any metal objects- keys, mobile phones?” Chewing his gum and pulling a face of apology, Jim placed his phone and keys into the box and walked through the machine again- This time it didn't sound. “Thank you.” Jim took back his phone and walked away, the smirk concealed. 

When standing directly in front of, if not a few metres away, a display showing the Crown Jewels. He watched everyone else walk and stare at each of the pieces. He elected instead to place headphones into his ear and crack his neck. Now was when the game would start. As 'The Thieving Magpie' started to play, he rolled his head slightly and spread his arms either side of his body. He slowly lowered them and stood by. 

In a different room, made specifically for surveillance, two security guards sat watching the CCTV. 

“Fancy a cuppa, then, mate?”

“Yeah, why not?” The first guard got up and walked away from the screens, leaving the other man alone to watch as the plan began to unfold right in front of his eyes. 

~*~*~*~

At the Bank of England- 11:00-, where Moriarty was clear from but planning to get to any minute, a director looked at the screen of his computer. “Gilts at seven; Dutch telecoms in freefall. Thank you, Harvey.” A butler placed a tray down next to the director and left the room to leave the director alone. 

~*~*~*~

Pentonville Prison- 11:00- The Governor of the prison slams down a huge file onto his desk, “What do you say: Refuse them all parole and bring back the rope. Let's begin.” He was completely clueless, just like the rest of the country, as to what was about to happen to those prisoners he so dearly loved. 

~*~*~*~

Jim's arms had now lowered completely; he lifted his phone into his view and scrolls the screen until an app icon with a crown on appears. He clicks on it. Let the game begin he thought to himself. In the surveillance room, all of the screens went blank and the alarm sounded throughout the building. 

“This is an emergency. Please leave the building.” A voice, automated of course, repeated over and over to the crowds. Everyone started to file out of the room-Everyone except Moriarty. A security guard places his hand on Moriarty's shoulder, “Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave.” before a spray hits his face from Moriarty and his body hit the floor. Jim flipped his hat off and smoothed his hair out.

~*~*~*~

At New Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Lestrade, even in his vampire life, was enjoying one of his favourite pastries and a coffee when Sally Donovan, a very worried looking Sally Donovan, burst into his office. “Sir, there's been a break-in.”

“Not our division.” Lestrade replied, his mouth full of pastry. 

“You'll want it.”

~*~*~*~

Jim once again scrolled through the apps on his phone, this time opting to choose one with an English piggy bank on it. Coins flew out of the pig and Jim smiled happily. 

~*~*~*~

When the room began to shake, the Director of the Bank looked down at his cup of tea, watching his screen once more. A warning of 'VAULT OPENING' appeared on his screen and an alarm sounded throughout the Bank. “The Vault!” The man said quickly before spilling his tea in his lap.

~*~*~*~

Lestrade and Sally were frantically driving to the Tower of London. No, Lestrade did not want to miss this. “Hacked into the Tower of bloody London security?! How ?!” Sally's phone began to ring and Lestrade was slightly annoyed now, they were already on their way. “Tell them we're already on our way.” 

“There's been another one; another break-in.” Sally said disbelievingly. Lestrade looked at her, but kept an eye on the road. “Bank of England!” 

~*~*~*~

Jim was now writing something, backwards, into the glass of the Crown of Jewels' confinement, so that the camera would be able to see it. He continued to chew his gum, and then when finished, drew a smiley face inside an 'O' on the glass. Selecting the last of the apps on his phone, showing the bars in front of a prisoner lifting away to leave the prisoner free, Jim smiled to himself. 

~*~*~*~

Pentonville Prison was the last to fall. An alarm sounded and a warder ran into the room of the Governor. “Sir, security's down, sir. It's failing.” The Governor jumped to his feet, knocking his mug of the desk in the process. The prisoners was more important than a cup of tea.

~*~*~*~

As Sally and Lestrade made their way towards the Tower, Sally received another phone call. Lestrade couldn't believe this. “What is it now?”

“Pentonville Prison.” 

“Oh no!” Lestrade stared at Sally in disbelief for a moment before returning his eyes to the road and sighing loudly. 

~*~*~*~

Against the glass, Jim holds his chewing gum in place, placing a very tiny diamond from a box and placing it in the middle of the gum. He smiled menacingly. When he turned away from the case, Moriarty stripped himself of his jacket, and raised his arms above his head once more. 

He couldn't hear the sirens outside, but he knew that the police would be arriving to take him away any time now. 

Putting leather gloves onto his hands, Moriarty walked to the wall and picked up a fire extinguisher. Moving from side to side dramatically, Moriarty moved closer to the glass once more and grinned happily. Swinging the extinguisher back, he rams it into the chewing gum with the diamond placed inside. The glass shattered in front of him, his smirk returning now. As the glass isn't completely smashed, he hits it a few more times to break the glass completely. 

~*~*~*~

Outside, Greg's car screeched to a halt, and both Lestrade and Donovan jumped out. There was no time to waste. When everyone is inside, they stormed into the locked room to find a pleased looking Moriarty sat in the throne. His headphones still in but with the robe and crown on his body. In his left hand he held the sceptre. His eyes initially closed, only opening to greet the people that are running into the room. 

“No rush.” Moriarty said calmly, his voice becoming slightly more posh, and a smile spread across his face. The music had now stopped. 

~*~*~*~

Sherlock's phone made another noise, a text alert once more. John, clearly annoyed by the situation, lowered his newspaper and stared at the phone. “I'll get it, shall I?” He said sarcastically. When he looked at the phone however, he wished that the sarcasm had not been present. His face now full of shock, John walked over to Sherlock and held out the phone. “Here.”

“Not now, I'm busy.”

“Sherlock-”

“Not now.” Sherlock snapped, not once looking up from his microscope to look at John.

Taking a deep breath John pushed the phone further into Sherlock's face, “He's back.” He said solemnly. Sherlock read the text: 'Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x.'. His eyes widened and he sank back into his chair slowly, his gaze not fixing onto anything in particular. It was a good thing that he'd gone to see Mycroft; Jim Moriarty's game was beginning.

Sherlock sat quietly for a few moments before jumping out of his chair and practically running out of the flat-John followed, after he'd put some clothes on, of course. While Sherlock waited for John to hurry up and leave the flat, he sat in a cab and placed his hands together. He needed time to think; John wouldn't allow that. 

When John finally left the flat he looked towards his friend and sighed. Even though Sherlock believed him to be, John wasn't stupid. He was older and wiser than Sherlock, he just didn't always let it show. He had no need to. The mortals all around him believed 'John Watson' and who he was, so there was no need for him to change that and be who he actually was. No, John knew that something was going to happen to Sherlock; this was only the beginning of the end-Just as Lestrade had said. 

At the Tower, Moriarty was smiling calmly, as though happy to be arrested, as he was pushed into the back seat of a Police car. Lestrade had his phone, but he didn't care. Let them take me away.

Sherlock and John had finally arrived, now watching the security footage. They watched Jim push his chewing gum onto the glass, and then something inside it. None of them were exactly sure what was pushed into it. 

“That glass is tougher than anything.” Lestrade commented as they tried to adjust the footage so that they could see exactly what Moriarty was doing. 

“Not tougher than crystallised carbon. He used a diamond.” Sherlock pointed out just before the footage shifts to the camera inside the glass. The one where Moriarty and his message cold be seen. As the glass rose back into place, Sherlock frowned. The message was for him... 

'GET SHERLOCK' with the smiley face inside the 'O'. John looked towards Sherlock, but his friend's gaze was fixed upon the screen entirely. 

~*~*~*~

The day of Jim Moriarty's trial. Sherlock wasn't prepared for it, no matter what John and everyone else thought. He had to stand back; that's what Mycroft had decided. 

After Sherlock had buttoned up his jacket, and John had successfully tied his tie, Sherlock went down the stairs and to the front door. He waited for John to pass him and reach out towards the door-His gaze vacant once again. 

“Ready?” John asked him, his hand placed on the door. 

“Yes.” Taking a deep breath, John prepared for the crowd outside. He opened the door. Police officers were trying to hold back journalists who were eager to snap a picture of the pair, and had already started the flash of their cameras. They both got into the back of a police car and it races off. 

As the car made its way through Trafalgar Square, John turned to his friend, “Remember-”

“Yes.”

“Rememb-”

“Yes.”

“-er.” John looked away in frustration. The man could be so insufferable at times. “Remember what they told you; don't try to be clever-”

“No.”

“-and please, just keep it simple and brief.” 

“God forbid the star witness at the trail should come across as intelligent.” Sherlock scowled out of the window-Not really listening to what John was saying to him. 

“'Intelligent', fine; let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth.” John was sure that Sherlock might have listened to what he was saying... Apparently not. 

“I'll just be myself.” Sherlock replied, half-heartedly. 

“Are you listening to me?!”

~*~*~*~

Moriarty, dressed in a grey-silver suit, was led up into the courtroom. When he reaches the top of the stairs he is turned and walked into the dock. A female prison officer checks the restraints on Moriarty, so he turns his head and murmurs to her, “Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?” When she gets a nod from another officer, she, rather reluctant looking, slips her hand into Moriarty's trouser pocket and pulls out a piece of chewing gum. Moriarty held out his tongue to her, so she placed the piece of gum onto his tongue. The tongue retreated so Moriarty could chew, and he smiled at her creepily. “Thanks.”

In the toilet of the court, Sherlock washed his hands when the announcement of “Crown versus Moriarty- please proceed to Court Ten.” blasted through the speakers in the room. As he turned towards a woman, clearly 'amazed' by his presence, who had just dropped her bag, he grimaced slightly. 

“You're him.” The woman says. She is clad in a deerstalker and has a 'I <3 Sherlock' badge pinned onto her jacket. 

“Wrong toilet.” Sherlock replies simply, knowing that this cannot be a fan of any sorts. 

“I'm a big fan!” The woman says calmly to him. 

When Sherlock turned fully towards her he said sarcastically, “Evidently.”

“I read your cases; follow them all.” When the woman stepped forward and opened her jacket to reveal her top, she stared at Sherlock lovingly. Her shirt underneath was undone quite low to reveal her cleavage to Sherlock. Oh God he thought to himself. “Sign my shirt, would you?” She even had a pen. 

“There are two types of fans.” Sherlock said to her simply. 

“Oh?”

“'Catch me before I kill again'-Type A...”

“Uh-huh. What's Type B?” Kitty asks, clearly not following where this was going. 

“'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away'.” The woman grinned at him, still staring into his eyes. 

“Guess which one I am.” She tests. 

When Sherlock looked down her body he couldn't see anything, beside what she added herself, that would suggest her being a fan of his. “Neither.” When Kitty blinked nervously, he gave a tiny smirk to her. 

“Really?” 

“No, you're not a fan at all.” Sherlock looked at each part of her again and said, “Those marks on your forearm: edge of a desk.” Indentations just below her right wrist. “You've been typing in a hurry, probably. Pressure on; facing a deadline.”

“That all?”

“And there's a smudge of ink on your wrist; and a bulge in your left jacket pocket.” Both of them looked down to said pocket and she smiled slightly. A red light flashed-It was recording. 

“Bit of a giveaway.” She smiled more prominently now and looked back at Sherlock. 

“The smudge is deliberate, to see if I'm as good as they say I am.” He lifted her wrist to his nose and sniffed, “Hmm. Oil-based; used in newspaper print, but drawn on with an index finger; your finger. Journalist. Unlikely you'd get your hands on the dirty press. You put that there to test me.”

“Wow, I'm liking you.” 

“You mean I'd make a great feature: 'Sherlock Holmes- the man beneath the hat'.” Sherlock stared at the journalist and looked her up and down once more. Thank god these people couldn't tell he was a vampire, that would be big news to everyone. 

“Kitty,” The journalist took the hat off and held out her hand for Sherlock to shake, “-Riley. Pleased to meet you.” 

“No. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you and interview; no, I don't want the money.” Sherlock said to her sarcastically, not taking her hand to shake it back. He pushed past her instead, aiming for the door, but she chased after him and slammed the door. 

“You and John Watson- just platonic? Can I put you down for a 'no' there, as well?” Now Kitty was right in his face, and Sherlock didn't like that. He let out a loud and angry breath-Let's keep John out of this. “There's all sort of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side...” Taking out a business card, she tucks it into Sherlock's breast pocket. “Someone to set the record straight.” 

When Sherlock smiled sarcastically to her, he was too angry to make it nice seeming. “And you think you're the girl for that job, do you?”

“I'm smart,” Kitty replied calmly, “and you can trust me; totally.” 

“Smart; okay: investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see.” Sherlock swayed in front of her and gave her an opportunity to read anything she needed from him. Kitty looked at him blankly. “If you're that skilful, you don't need an interview. You can just read what you need.” Kitty still couldn't meet his eyes so Sherlock continued, “No? Okay, my turn.” He paced around her and looked her up and down. “I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive shirt but it's been re-hemmed twice; only posh skirt you've got. And your nails: you can't afford to do them that often. I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart, and I definitely don't see trustworthy, but I'll give you a quote if you like- three little words.” Sherlock reached down and took the dictaphone from inside her pocket, placing it near his mouth. Kitty stepped forward hopefully, maybe Sherlock would actually say something good now. 

“You. Repel. Me.” Sherlock said slowly, before leaving the bathroom. He couldn't stand journalists, let alone ones who tested him by adding deliberate accessories to their every day wear. Being a vampire was bad enough with trying to hide it, let alone when there were journalists snooping in your everyday life every second of your day. 

Sherlock had been called forward, so was now standing in the witness box. Sherlock looks up at John for a moment before looking back down at the barrister. 

“A 'Consulting Criminal'?”

“Yes.”

“Your words. Can you expand on that answer?” The prosecuting barrister asks Sherlock. 

“James Moriarty is for hire.”

“A tradesman?” 

“Yes.” 

“But not the sort who'd fix your heating?”

“No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he's make a pretty decent job of your boiler.” Sherlock looked around confused as muffled laughter filled the Court Room. Even the barrister had to try and hide her smile. 

“Would you describe him as-”

“Leading.” Sherlock said, interrupting her question. 

“What?”

“Can't do that. You're leading the witness.” Sherlock looked towards the defending barrister and continued, “He'll object and the judge will uphold.”

The Judge looked ready to throw Sherlock into a cell, his patience wearing thin. “Mr Holmes.” He snapped.

“Ask me how. How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?” Sherlock asked the Prosecution barrister- Clearly bored with the trail already. 

“Mr Holmes, we're fine without your help.” The Judge snaps at Sherlock once more. 

“How would you describe this man?- His character?” 

“First mistake.” Sherlock's gaze now fixed itself upon Moriarty in his box. “James Moriarty isn't a man at all- he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web- a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances. Jim nods his head in agreement, impressed by Sherlock's description of his network. 

“And how long-”

“No, no, don't-don't do that. That's really not a good question.” Sherlock replies, his eyes closed in exasperation. 

“Mr Holmes.” The Judge's tone had turned angry now. 

“How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up.” Now Sherlock's tone turned sarcastic towards the court. “I felt we had a special something.” Moriarty's eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?” The Judge asked the prosecutor. 

“Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample.” 

“Mr Holmes, that's a matter for the jury.” The Judge didn't know what he'd just let himself in for, but John did. His gaze fixed onto Sherlock's and he shook his head slightly. He knew exactly what was about to happen. 

Sherlock look at the jury, “Oh really?” He studied them all for a few seconds, “One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably in the City. The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her short hand.” 

“Mr Holmes!”

“Seven are married and two are having an affair- with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits.” Sherlock turned his gaze towards the Judge and smirked slightly. “Would you like to know who ate the wafer?” 

“Mr Holmes.” The Judge had really had enough of Sherlock now. “You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess.” Sherlock took a deep breath and smiled at John slightly because of his 'intellectual prowess'. John stared at him back, sternly. “Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes, without showing off?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth and replied. 

The next thing John knew, Sherlock was being thrown in a cell. How bloody typical. He knew that Sherlock wasn't listening when he gave him a brief word on how to keep his manner while he was in the witness box. He had tried though, which was something. 

Now he had to go an bail him out... Fantastic. “I'm here to bail out Sherlock Holmes. He made himself look like a complete arse in Moriarty's trial.” John said the the person standing behind the desk. “I'm sorry to take him out, but we have some important matters to discuss concerning one of his cases. I'm sure you know about those.” John added quietly on the end. Most people knew the name Sherlock Holmes nowadays. 

It takes them a while to get Sherlock out of the cell, and when he's signing for his possessions, John stands with his arms crossed and simply stares at the man. “What did I say? I said, 'Don't get clever'.”

“I can't just turn it on and off like a tap.” Sherlock took the belongings out of the officer's hand and turned to John, “Well?”

“Well, what?” 

“You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish.” 

“Like you said it would be, he sat on his backside, never even stirred.” 

“Moriarty's not mounting any defence.” Sherlock said and they both left the building. “Did you enjoy my deductions of the jury, you usually enjoy them? Do I get some sort of reward this time? I believe I left you hanging the other day.” 

“Sherlock.” John placed his hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed him up against the wall. “You can't just make me have- well.”

“What?” Sherlock purred directly into John's ear, watching gleefully as John swallowed, hard, and lifted his head to look Sherlock directly in the eye. 

“You can't make me get hard and then walk out for a case, only to remember a month later that you left me like that right before we went onto a crime scene. That is not how this is going to work. Yes, I admit, I have had a girlfriend or two in that time, but that is no excuse. You can't just use me whenever you're horny.” With that, John pushed himself off of the wall and into the street full of people, leaving Sherlock gaping like a goldfish. 

When he came back to his senses, he saw the elder still walking away from and started to chase. He didn't dare use his speed in such a big group of people though; it wasn't worth the risk of the public knowing what he truly was. “John!” He shouted the man, but he didn't turn around. Sherlock ran faster and pulled John into an alleyway. “John.”

“What?! What cold you possibly have to say to me right now-What? What are you doing?” John stopped when Sherlock placed his hand onto the smaller man's cheek. Sherlock was moving closer, and John wasn't planning on stopping it any time soon. Sherlock kept inching closer until their noses brushed together. Now John had had enough! He placed his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck firmly and closed the distance between them. 

The kissing turned heated, very quickly. Considering they'd both kissed each other before, even had sex, both men were cautious about their movements. Sherlock's hand was still on John's cheek as his tongue battled with John's inside John's mouth. The hand that was on Sherlock's neck had now fisted itself into his curls, and were pulling slightly. Sherlock practically purred into John's mouth.

Simultaneously, the men pulled away from each other and smiled. 

“I am sorry, Jawn. I did not mean to do so, but Moriarty's game has been playing on my mind for the past month, and I tried not to forget you-It just, sort of happened... I'm sorry.” Sherlock's head had dropped into John's shoulder, so the older vampire couldn't actually understand half of what Sherlock was saying to him. He presumed it was something nice. 

“Hey, Sherlock, it's okay.” John pulled Sherlock out of his shoulder and placed one more lingering kiss onto his lips, smirking when Sherlock chased his lips to get more. “Let's go home. I'm famished.” He smiled, taking Sherlock's hand in his own, and leading the taller vampire out of the alley way. 

~*~*~*~

As the two vampires entered the flat, John decided now was time to clear everything up, “Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville. Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no-one knows how or why.” John threw himself into his chair and watched as Sherlock started to pace in front of him. “All we know is-”

“-He ended up in custody.” When Sherlock stopped, John let out a loud sigh. 

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“The Look.”

“Look?”

“You're doing the look again.” 

“Well, I can't see it, can I?” John pointed to the mirror and Sherlock looked. He looked at his reflection, and saw nothing wrong. “It's my face.”

“Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face.” 

“Well, we do.” Sherlock protested.

“No. I don't, which I why I find The Face so annoying.” John fingers had made themselves into a clear gesture, making sure that Sherlock understood John's frustration. 

“If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there.” Sherlock started to pace again. His frustration was starting to grow now. “Somehow this is part of his scheme.” 

“Well, that's lovely, Sherlock, but I'm hungry. What do you fancy? Chinese? Just blood tonight? Or maybe we could go to Angelo's.” John had started to ramble, hoping to get Sherlock's mind off of the blasted case for an hour or so. He'd missed his best friend in the past six weeks. He'd always been there, but surprisingly vacant. “But, if I buy us dinner, don't think it gets you off the hook for that stunt you pulled in the Court Room... I've never been so embarrassed in my life.” He said, rubbing his hand over his face. 

“I don't blame you, John.” Sherlock replied staring helplessly into the distance. His mind hadn't been the same recently. He knew what was going to happen, and he knew what he had to do. He had to leave John behind and, if he wasn't careful, it might actually kill him. 

“Angelo's it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading this! Please leave a comment and I'll try to get the next chapter up by the 30th of June. Yes, my exams finish next week, but I have to finish the chapter to post it.


	4. How could you be fine? 'Cause I'm not fine at all!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You all know the drill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from one of, the only three songs I like, 5SOS' songs- Amnesia.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter... I'm sorry I promised for the 30th. Lots of shit has been happening. Plus side school finishes this week. 
> 
> ENJOY!

“Mr Crayhill, can we have your first witness?”

 

The defence barrister rose to his feet and swallowed slightly, “Your Honour, we're not calling any witnesses.” The Judge looked completely confused with the barrister.

 

“I don't follow. You've entered a plea of Not Guilty.”

 

“Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence. The defence rests.” The barrister sat down and looked down at his file. Moriarty simply pursed his lips at the Judge, and turned to John. He pulled a face and shrugged slightly-mockery.

 

Still sitting at home, Sherlock was staring into space, his mind not focused on anything at all. Until, in time with Judge in the court room, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which-if he's found guilty- will elicit a very long custodial sentence; and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty.” Sherlock closed his eyes now and whispered, “Guilty.”

 

“You _must_ find him guilty.” The Judge said once more.

 

John sat on a bench outside the Courtroom, hoping that the verdict wouldn't take them too long to decide upon.

 

“They're coming back.” The Judge warns him.

 

“That's six minutes.” John says, checking his watch to make sure that he's correct.

 

“Surprised it took them _that_ long, to be honest. There's a queue for the loo.” He rushed back into the courtroom, followed by a slightly reluctant John. Inside the courtroom, the Clerk stood and asked, “Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?” The foreman stood and stared unhappily at the Clerk.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock had been sitting in complete silence, still staring into the nothingness of the wall in front of him, and rarely blinking as he waited for the verdict. On the table, his phone began to buzz. Without looking, Sherlock placed the phone to his ear and listened to the voice on the other end. “Not Guilty. They found him Not Guilty. No defence, and Moriarty's walked free.” Sherlock lowered his phone and swallowed slightly. “Sherlock. Are you listening? He's out. You-you know he'll be coming after you. Sher-” Sherlock hung up and switched his phone off.

 

Time to get ready for his guest. John was right, Moriarty _would_ come after him, and he would be prepared. In the kitchen, Sherlock put on the kettle and slammed a tray down onto the worktop next to it. Onto that, Sherlock continued to slam down a jug of milk, a sugar bowl, a teapot and two teacups and their saucers. Just before the kettle boiled, Sherlock decided to remove his dressing gown and replace it with his blazer-It seemed more fitting for this meeting.

 

Now that the kettle had come to a boil in the kitchen, Sherlock returned and made the tea. He walked into the living room and placed the tray down, not as a slam this time, and picked up his violin. He began to play Bach's ' _Sonata No.1 in G minor_ ' and stared away from the door. Downstairs he could hear the front door open- Moriarty being the criminal he was, of course he would pick the lock. He continued to play, only stopping briefly when he heads the footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock continued to play until Moriarty opened the door and stepped into the flat.

 

“Most people knock.” With a shrug, Sherlock still didn't turn around, “But then you're not most people, I suppose. Kettle's just boiled.”

 

Moriarty walked into the flat and picked up an apple from the bowl, “Johann Sebastian would be appalled.” He walked closer to Sherlock and asked, “May I?”

 

Sherlock finally turned towards Moriarty and replied, “Please.” Using his bow, Sherlock gestured towards John's chair, but Moriarty sat down in Sherlock's instead. Sherlock started for a moment, before putting his violin down. In the corner of his eye, he could see Moriarty using a small penknife to cut into the apple.

 

As Sherlock poured the tea, Jim started to talk, “You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end-”

 

“-And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it.”

 

“Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody.”

 

“Neither can you. That's why you've come.” Sherlock replied in a flat tone.

 

“But be honest; you're just a tiny bit pleased.”

 

“What, with the verdict?” Sherlock asked, picking up one of the teacups and adding a splash of milk to it. He gave the cup to Moriarty, who straightened up and took the offered tea.

 

“With _me_ , back on the streets.” At this, Moriarty looked up at Sherlock and smiled at him. When he caught Sherlock's eye he continued, “Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain.” Moriarty grinned at that and Sherlock turned away. He added milk to his own tea , and continued not to look. “You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're alike, you and I- except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels.” Moriarty shook his head in disappointment, then returned to take a sip of his tea.

 

Sherlock stirred his own tea, and turned towards the criminal. “Got to the jury, of course.”

 

“I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel room?”

 

“Cable network.” Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and sat down in John's chair, his legs crossed.

 

“Every hotel bedroom had a personalised TV screen- and every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm.” Moriarty lifted the teacup to his lips again and smirked.

 

Sherlock placed his teacup close to his lips, “So how're you going to do it...” He blew gently onto his tea, never breaking eye contact with Moriarty, “ _burn me_?” Sherlock now took a sip of his tea, slowly.

 

“Oh, that's the problem- the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem?” Moriarty smiled across his teacup at the other man. “I did tell you,” he began to sing, “but did you listen?” He took one more sip of his tea and then replaced the cup to its saucer. He placed his hand onto his knee and added another piece to his plan. His fingers idly started to drum against his knee. “How hard do you find it, have to say 'I don't know'?”  
  


Sherlock placed his teacup back on its saucer, and replaced it on the tray, “I dunno.”  
  


“Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; _awfully_ clever.” Sherlock smiled humourlessly, as Moriarty chuckled, “Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?”

 

“Told them what?”

 

“Why I broke into all those places and never took anything.”

 

“No.”

 

“But _you_ understand.”

 

“Obviously.”   
  


“Off you go, then.” Using the penknife from earlier, Moriarty carved off a piece of the apple and placed it into his mouth.

 

“You want me to tell you what you already know?”

 

“No, I want you to _prove_ that you know it.” Moriarty replied smoothly, challenging Sherlock.

 

“You didn't take anything because you don't _need_ to.”

 

“Good.”

 

“You'll never need to take anything ever again.”

 

“Very good. Because...”

 

“Because nothing... _nothing_ in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three.”

 

“I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now- they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy- I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes- I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a World of locked room, the man with the key is king; and honey you should _see me in a crown_.” Moriarty sung once more to Sherlock, and smiled at the other man.

 

“You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the World what you can do.”

 

“And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities... terrorist cells. They all want me.” Moriarty placed another piece of apple into his mouth using the penknife. “Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex.”  
  


“If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?” Sherlock asked the criminal; intrigued now.

 

“I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves _me_ the best!' Aren't ordinary people _adorable_? Well, you know: You've got John. I should get myself a live-in one.” Moriarty trailed off thinking about his ordinary person.

 

“Why _are_ you doing all of this?”

 

Moriarty, still pre-occupied with his ordinary live-in person, replied, “It'd be so funny.”

 

“You don't want money or power- not really.” Moriarty dug the penknife into the bottom of the apple as Sherlock continued, “What _is_ it all for?”

  
Moriarty sat forward in the chair, “I want to solve the problem- _our_ problem; the final problem.” Moriary's head lowered as he continued to talk to the Detective, “It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination.” The words were practically snarled as his head lifted slowly. When his head was raised, he started to whistle and his head lowered once more. The whistle ended with the sound of something thudding onto the ground.

 

Sherlock bared his teeth slightly, and stood to button up his jacket. “Never liked riddles.” He replied in the flattest tone he could muster.

 

Moriarty stood and straightened out his own jacket. He then looked Sherlock in the eyes and finished their meeting with, “Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I... _Owe_... You.” He continued to stare for a few moments before leaving the flat.

 

Sherlock let him leave, not moving until the footsteps on the stairs faded, and picked up the apple that Moriarty had left behind. Using the knife's handle, he picked the apple up and twisted to read what Moriarty had left carved into the apple's skin. ' _I O U_ '. Sherlock smiled slightly, hearing John's stumbles up the stairs.

 

“Ah. Hello, John. It's good to see that you've _finally_ made your way back here.” John was out of breath, and Sherlock could see, or at least tell, that he was _not_ in the mood for Sherlock's shit today.

 

“You bastard. I just saw none other than _Moriarty_ , the same man who walked away _Not Guilty_ today, walk out of our flat. He smiled at me and put his sunglasses on... _Who_ does that?” John looked at the tea set on the table and let out a dry laugh, “Oh, and I see you had tea with him as well. Is there something wrong with you, Sherlock? He's out of his mind, and out to get _you_.” With that, John's jaw set and he made to leave the flat. Sherlock beat him to the door, however, so he had to stare at the man instead.

 

“John-”

 

“No, Sherlock. That man is planning to kill you. You may think I'm an idiot,” Sherlock's face paled slightly at this, “but I'm not. I know what Moriarty's doing. The body we found was Moriarty's tester for _you_ and I will _not_ let you pretend everything is okay. Now, _move_ , or I'll throw you out of the way.” John growled at the man now, baring his fangs and snarling slightly. Sherlock raised his chin and continued to stare the older vampire down.

 

“Why should I move?” Sherlock asked, his voice almost completely innocent sounding.

 

“ _Sherlock_ -” John growled, his whole face turning into his natural form. His eyes were completely black now, and his face was more grey than in his human disguise. Under his eyes, deep veins appeared and he hissed at his flat mate. “ _Move_!”

 

“John, I'm not going to move out of the way. As you always say, we need to talk about this.” When Sherlock's calm tone left his mouth, John pretended to race for the door in the kitchen-Sherlock falling into his trap immediately and also going for the other door, so John left the flat, with an angered Sherlock shouting behind him. ' _Serves you right, you bastard_ ' John thought to himself, slowing down to a walking pace so that nobody knew who he truly was.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Two months later, John had hardly spoken to Sherlock-Sherlock refusing to remember why. He made his way to the cash point and tried to take some money out. He inserted his card, and entered his pin into the machine-They always did piss him off. A message appeared on the screen:

 

' _There is a problem with_

_your card._

_Please wait..._ '

 

John grimaced at the message when another popped up on the screen:

 

' _Thank you for_

 _your patience._ '

 

John blinked and another message came up on the screen.

 

' _John_ ' When John turned around, a sleek black car pulled up behind him and he sighed. John was taken to The Diogenes Club and led into a large room, completely silent, even though there were several people in the room. He looked around the room, and walked up to an old looking gentleman in the corner. “Er, excuse me. Um. I'm looking for Mycroft Holmes.” When the man's face turned appalled, but he didn't look up, John continued, “Would you happen to know if he's around at all?” Other men in the room turned towards John but nobody answered his questions. “Can you not hear me?” The man looks up at John and huffs. “Yes, all right.” John now turned to the others in the room, “Anyone?” The other men in the room turned their faces away from him and he continued, “Anyone at all know where Mycroft Holmes is? I've been asked to meet him here.” When the old man used his cane to press a button on the wall, and an alarm sounded, John turned to the room, “No takers? Right.” John raised his voice when nobody answer him still, “Am I invisible? Can you actually see me?”

 

Two men in dress coats walked into the room and towards John, “Ah, thanks, gents.” The old man waves towards John and the two men walk directly towards John now, instead. “I've been asked to meet Mycroft Holm-” The two men seized John's firmly and John's sentence cut off turning into, “What the...? Hey!” One of the men muffles John's protests as they drag him out of the room, returning it into complete silence.

 

John was taken to a smaller room, and into the presence of Mycroft. Inside, Mycroft had poured himself a drink-blood, John noticed. He could smell it in the air, thick and full. Just how it should be. “Tradition, John. Our traditions define us.”

  
“So total silence is traditional, is it? You can't even say, 'Pass the sugar'?”

 

“Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It's for the best, believe me.” Mycroft smiled at John briefly before making his way to two arm chairs and sitting down in one. His expression now grim. “They didn't want a repeat of nineteen seventy-two. But we can talk in here.”

 

John walked to a table and picks up a copy of 'The Sun' and shows it to Mycroft, “You read this stuff?”

 

“Caught my eye.” John sat down in the other chair, “Saturday: They're doing a big exposé.”

 

“I'd love to know where she got her information.”

 

“Someone called Brook. Recognise the name?”

 

John lowered the paper and shook his head, “School friend, maybe?”

 

Mycroft laughed and continued to chuckle as he talked to John, “Of Sherlock's? But that's not why I asked you here.” He walked to a table and picked up several folders, giving one to John on his way back to his chair, he did not sit however. John opened the file and studied the picture.

 

“Who's that?”

 

“Don't know him?”

 

“No.”

 

“Never seen his face before?” John hummed, so Mycroft continued, “He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you.”

 

“Hmm! I was _thinking_ of doing a drinks thing for the neighbours.” John smiled at Mycroft sarcastically, which earned him nothing but a straight face.

 

“Not sure you'll want to. Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door.” John smiled slightly. “Oh, and _guess_ what he specialises in.”

 

“It's a great location. Jubilee line's handy.”

 

“John-”

 

“What's it got to do with me?”

 

Mycroft hands John another of the files. “Dyachenko, Ludmila.” John let out a tired groan, but opened the files any way and looked at the pictures.

 

“Um, actually, I think I _have_ seen _her_.”

 

“Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite. Also has a particular speciality.”

 

“Okay... I'm sensing a pattern here.”

 

Mycroft now handed him the rest of the files in his hands, “In fact, _four_ top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. All with the same speciality. Anything you care to share with me?”

 

John looked down at the photos and chuckled slightly, “I'm moving?!” The soldier received an unamused look from the Government man.

 

In fact, Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the other man. “It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?”

 

“You think this is Moriarty?”

 

“He promised Sherlock he'd come back.”

 

“If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already. Or not-Considering we're vampires.”

 

“That's what I've been trying to tell you, John-They all specialise in the same thing. They're vampire hunters, as well as assassins. And, if not Moriarty, then who?”

 

“Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him?” When Mycroft looked away and started to move the glass on the table around, John rolled his eyes, “Oh God, don't tell me.”

 

“Too much history between us, John. Old scores; resentments.”

 

“Knocked over his block tower? Stole his ice cream?” John couldn't help but laugh at the brothers' immaturity. He put the files down on the table and whispered, “Finished.” He stood and went to leave the room.

 

“We both know what's coming, John.” John turned back to the man, ready to pounce any second. “Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival.”

 

John's reply to the man was tight, “So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won't accept your help.”

 

“If it's not too much trouble” He smiled at John, but it faded quickly to a threatening gaze. John left the room, and the building in silence. It was no secret that John turned and looked over his shoulder numerous times as he walked back to Baker Street-There were Vampire Hunters around.

 

When he arrived back at the flat, a brown envelope was waiting for him. He put his finger into one of the corners, and opened the envelope easily- Bread crumbs falling out in the process. He caught some of the crumbs and studied them.

 

“'Scuse, mate.”

 

“Oh.” John moved out of the way for a man covered in tattoos, carrying a yellow step ladder into the hallway of 221B. He made his ways inside and up the stairs to talk to Sherlock. “Sherlock, something weird-” He stopped when he saw Greg and Sally there also. “What's going on?”

 

“Kidnapping.” Sherlock sat down at the table, and started to type on his laptop.

 

“Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the US.” Lestrade clarified for John, considering Sherlock probably wouldn't tell him anything.

 

“He's in Washington, isn't he?”

 

“Not him- his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine.” Sally handed John a picture of the two children, as Lestrade continued to explain the situation to him, “They're at St Aldate's.”

 

“Posh boarding place down in Surrey.” Sally added to the conversation.

 

Then Lestrade started to talk to Sherlock once more, “The school broke up; all the other borders went home-just a few kids remained, including those two.

 

“The kids have vanished.”

 

“The ambassador's asked for you personally.”

 

Sherlock stood from his chair and, with his coat over his arm, made his way over to the door. When Sally said, “The Reichenbach Hero” with a sneer, Sherlock continued, his eyes being the only part of him to betray his face. Greg followed him down the stairs.

 

“Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity!” Lestrade said sarcastically, still following Sherlock. John gestured for Sally to go out before him, and they all left the flat.

 

Little did they know about the little camera hidden in the flat, tracking their movements, without them even knowing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there. Thanks for reading. Please leave a comment. The next chapter will be up soon-ish... I think...


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